a poem about too many people and too much heart.you were myconclusion- the last paragraph and the last thingi got to say. i loved you and itook words frombetween my eyelashes and iput them down foryou, i took you aparta million times in my mind and always put youback together-and i drewyou, soft and silhouettedagainst mywindow, the panefoggy and i thought of youin the darkest of times, because i kept telling myselfthat you were thelight (like you promised). i know that i am justa girl withtoo much heart andtoo weak of ribs; buti was hopingthat you would help the foxeshunt the hounds, just fortonight.
patron saint of liars and fakes.a dark sky andflowers starting to sprout--this is wherewe found him, where i loved him for the first time (but not thelast), and this is where my heart is.he was calm, 17years old but with more decades thanthe godsstitching his lips closed; perpetually silent, but neverstill.and on his arm -that war torn territory-they lied shone in the halfsun, his last wordswritten in the blood of his heart (and some ofmine, too).
the price to pay for breaking a heart.this is a fact: it hurts to bebroken. but what hurts evenmore isbeing one one whodoes thebreaking.to be the personwho stands over the otherand watchthem choke on theirtears and thenhand them their ownheart- rip someone apart and thennot be able toput them back togetheragain.and when you close youreyes, all you can seeare the ribbons coming undonefrom their wrists. you crumble from your owndisgrace.
april.here is thetruth: i am just a sad teenage girl withtoo many scars anda healing heart.but here is whatis true: i am learning to findhappinessin the misery-i am internally alone andseemingly petrified (which is aterrible mix, really), buti am finally ableto let myself fall in love. and i may be bad atendings, but i thinki'm beginning to understand that minedoesn't have to beright away.
the lives of past loves.i. nabove all else, iwould like to thankyoufor waiting under themulberry tree; i'm sorry i never gotto see youthere.ii. myou- the boy whoate my heart. i'm glad you showed me whatmonsterslook like. iii. jyou made me believethat i actually didhave eyed as brightas the ocean.but you taught methat following yourbrainis not always the rightchoice.iiii. gwith your heartin places you'venever been, you left behindthe only onesthat gave you a placeto love-that red Camaro won'tget you outof your head.iiii. boh, those big gentle-killer eyes- i loved you for wantingto put me backtogether;you loved me for howi cameapart in yourhands. iiiii.i ethe one with his soulcaught in theclouds- don't let these one way streetsbring you down.just promise me that youwill always rememberhow happiness tastedon your tongue.
,i used to part my hair down the middle,but then i stoppedwhen i was twelvebecause innocencewas heavy,or something likethat.besides,we all have to grow up,don't we?
a.m./p.m.i put my handsin the stars-feathery hair, coldskin and cyanosis fed, i realize that i amnothing. born in neither winteror spring, crying aboutcherry tree spines andthrowing stones, iwas left for thewolves. it is the dawn ofFebruary, and i am so close toseventeen that i cantaste it; i am very nearly choking on age. the sky beckons me most at 11:49 pm, becauseit's hovering between tomorrow and yesterday--that destroys me. i want to burn it to theground, breathethe ashes in like cigarettes ondirty curbs. i am stuck here in a windowless town witha thousand memories stuck between my canines;into the wind, i drop words like deadweights. take me home.
no town is worth this blood.i'm tired ofpouring my heartinto a town that willnever be full.the people here are cross eyed, staring at the too-hot sun on their noses and tripping over greedy train tracks; i think we moved hereto get away, but nowwe're stuck here,2.5 hours from the Windy City; fuck, we're stagnant. there isacid in the rain, and i am choking onillusions.
.to thestar gazers outon dusty bridges-the ones whocould never seeApollo'schasing grin-keep looking.
8:15i.silently, with hushingeyes, he watches the atmosphere-he treads it around hishair and his fingers and heart, breaths it in; ii.when he is done dancingwith devils and dead friends, he reaches into me andpulls out a flower- he puts it behind myear, and he loves while he burns.iii.i take his ashes andi put them on thepetals (he said not to forgetthe beauty indeath, and i'm tryingwith all the heart inside me).
.the problem is, i pulled myself out of hell, buti did so for him.
you ate the stars and i ate my heart.this is how i wasdestroyed: ifell in love with a boywith razor sharpteeth and apoet's heart. it's really adreadfullypretty kind of thing.using his borrowedcraft-man'stongue, he took me in like afour a.m cigarette (slowly, andwith loneliness in every one of hisjoints). we both thoughtthat enough smokewould fill in the cracks in ourrib cages; we were bothwrong.he told me that he wouldlike to be aplanet: "all that openspace, all those dyingstars. it would give me room tobreathe".instead of telling him thatthere is no oxygen inouter space, iwatched him feel his lungsimplode. it broke mybones to witness it; but it's really adreadfully pretty thing tosee.
cherry blossoms.one after theother, we swallowedsong birdsuntil we bled ourselvesdry.bones andall- their feathers stuckin my stomach. you, darling,you bloomed under my palm like amountain, like thesunrise. i watchedas you traced two goldenwings with yourtongue, like some kind ofdusk and dawn godhybrid. after all thatskin and dust and love was gone, you turned to meand almost smiled before you went away. i am still tryingto understand how tomiss you.
we'll go to the stars.space shuttle girl, take me to themoon.baby, this worldhas used me upand i'm so torn betweenfalling in loveand chasing you. don't make me into yourmidnight cigarette break. i am more, andyou know that, sojust let me get overeverything wenever were in peace.
between here and there.i.- the whorish age.i was born young, but i thinki've somehow always beenseventeen. that's really the most impossibly lonesome ageto be. here you are, stuck in the middle ofinnocence andadulthood- god, seventeenis such a fuckingtease. it's all the want, and noneof the get, none of the have.ii.- the epitome of in betweens.maybe it's justme. after all, i am constantly grasping at thein betweens. i liveon 'maybe's and 'perhaps's, feast on'could-have-been's. it'swhat i breathe. the worst one, to me, is 11:49 p.m.; it's almost a new day, but it's just11 minutes away. it'sin between yesterday andtomorrow. i wonder if11:49 p.m. is lonely. i wonder ifit can feel the buzz ofnothingness, the hum of everything itis not. i wonder if i am 11:49 p.m., because i amdrowning in the thingsi have yet tobecome.iii.- the typewriter with pins for keys.there is thisthing inside of me,
4/8i place a shellon your knee- it'sa silent plea for you to ask mewhy i'm looking at you likethat,and i would have told youthat it's becausei love you.i would have told youhow i lovethe way your hair curlsupward, like one massive cowlick and how i love your onedimple, the slope ofyour nose and the space where your collarbones meet. but you smiled andslid it into yourpocket, which is okaytoo.
.she said to lookat the sky whenever i missed her-"i'll be the closeststar". but she never said what todo when it'scloudy.
dog days.i was once lostin the waythat flowers grew-but then you took meto a field ofblue bells and laid me down andkissed me; and suddenly i no longer felt the needto know.
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
fall in love with (splitting hairline fractures)we swallow blues insteadof talking them out. oh,kids like us are specters,spectacles: boys countingrib(cage)s & (de)composing don't you hate (this body) is a vesselwe're deities or tomb-raiders; noin-betweens for writers these days
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
all we ever do is decayI.nobody falls in love with saturn,but everyone, her rings.II.this disjointed skull is a smirkingmirror bending back reflections.this disjointed skull is a sleep-smoker.III.you were a utopian seven lives ago,but nobody lives in this body anymore.
the gardenersMy father is a good man.His hands, dry andcallused, carry a caseof Corona Liteto the gardeners inour backyard.Big-brimmed hats castshadows down their faces,and a pile of thick,gray gloves lieson the glass table.The beer looks like liquidgold in those clear bottles,and condensation clingsto the glass like the sweatbeading at their brows.My father and the gardenersdrink, laughing like they’veknown one another for years.There is nothingthat brings men togetherbetter than beeron a hot day.
confess, like there's blood pouring out your mouthfear is licking at thiscobwebbed mind & ifeel cinematic; like asteam-powered poet,i'll write myself into amisanthropic migraine& outline cinder bonesto match - ingenue,you are an esoteric'snightscape & i, yourmorning's fever burns.
the way you speak through incisionsoh, disaster dweller, you werebone-ache blue & cyanotic.we wore lonely luminescence'round the wrists that heldour god-hands, but you werelivid skin & anesthetic to thetouch. a river of pitted veins,you said: we'll all grow weary ofthe rising of our ribs someday.
cancer-eyes, cancer-eyes,(i think i had wings, once, back when theworld still looked a little lighterthan the darkness--)i.they told me, darling, we've gotsome news about thatsickness in your bones; but not to worry, notto worry, we'll try our best to find a way...ii.i used to think 'our best' was good enough, backwhen i could stand on my owntwo feet without slipping and slidingas the world turned sideways; back when i was youngerand staring at the pillows on the bedat the fallen-out hair lying on the crisp whitelinen; and as tears rolled through my eyelashes the apologiespoured from parent's lips, whispering promises thattomorrow will be better, it will --iii.i'd spend hours staringat my skin, wondering what code, what sequence hadgone wrong to cause a sickness without a cure -my veins were black, not blue, and theyonly carried poison; they were crossed wires, held togetherwith glue and stitches and strung up againin the wrong order when they stopped working awhile -i learned
1:33 amto the angry young man withhungry ocean eyes: i do not wish to knowwhat crawled insideyour ribs todie; i just wish you wouldlet it leave.